


drown your sorrows

by lethargicProfessor



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargicProfessor/pseuds/lethargicProfessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurt to go back into that room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drown your sorrows

It hurt to go back into that room.

The furniture was dusty, posh upholstery faded and dirty. The glass cabinets had been emptied; trails of grime led to the edges, as if whoever had cleaned up had tossed everything out without a care.

The large bed was covered in a fine layer of powder, neatly made - the occupant in the room obviously hadn’t had time to sleep.

Allen sighed, running a hand through his hair. He hated walking into Cross’s room. It hurt to see, to  _picture_  the absolute horror that happened… Was it really a year ago?

The room had been cleaned up thoroughly by Leverrier’s CROW, but he still felt the need to poke around. Maybe Cross had left some clues… Something. _Anything_.

The windows had been repaired, and the bloodstains scrubbed out, but there was still a faint feel of  _death_  in the air… Like Cross was still haunting the place.

The young man shuddered at the thought, walking to the window to let some air into the room. Timcanpy fluttered behind him, diving to the alcove beside the window. Though faint, there were still discolored spots in the fabric, evidence of that night’s atrocities.

The golden ball nuzzled the dried blood sadly, making Allen turn away. Despite of the womanizing bastard’s bad habits, he still felt a connection to the red-haired general. He cared for him. Grudgingly, but he still cared.

And it didn’t help that their last moments together were heart-wrenching; the one time Cross actually showed some sort of human emotion besides the needs to eat, drink, and shag anything that moved. He actually behaved like a decent person.

Then he went and got himself killed. Allen refused to believe the proud man had killed himself. It just didn’t make sense to him.

With an annoyed huff, the exorcist got to work, mumbling to himself. If he knew his Master, (and sadly, he did), then he wouldn’t have left anything important out in the open. He was a sneaky little bastard, and he knew CROW would be poking their nose into matters that didn’t concern them.

The only problem now was to figure out where the hell he’d hidden his things.

First he glanced under the bed, the most obvious place, in hopes of proving the “hiding-in-plain-sight” theory. Needless to say, it failed, but he did take a chance at tapping the floorboards just in case.

There was nothing but a rather irritated mouse, which Allen quickly left alone.

Next, he moved the cabinets, wincing at how heavy they were. He was strong, but it was ridiculous the amount of energy he was expending to nudge the glass monstrosities a few inches. By the time he had moved one enough, he was drenched in sweat, his coat and vest tossed in a pile on the bed.

He found a small safe, (which he cracked rather easily), but found only cobwebs and a small ledger that he refused to touch. Shuddering, he slammed the safe shut and manhandled the cabinet back to its rightful place.

Instead of moving the other cabinet, he move on to check behind paintings. Again, his search yielded nothing but cobwebs and a variety of spiders that seemed rather upset at his having disturbed their resting places.

Nursing a nasty bite on his arm, he glanced around, tapping the walls in a halfhearted attempt to discover something. By the time he finished, his right hand was bruised, knuckles bright red.

Annoyed, he glanced around, trying to figure out where his master could have hidden anything.

“If I were a conniving, womanizing general, where would I hide something important?” He mused, tapping his chin absently. He could always ask Lavi - he was awfully good at getting into someone else’s mindset. (He also had the sneaking suspicion that some part of Lavi’s parentage could be traced back to Cross, but he wasn’t quite ready to open that particular can of worms.)

He shrugged, glancing at the short bookcase to his left. It had been searched haphazardly, books shoved in with little care with their pages bent and torn. Absently, he wandered over, pulling each book out slowly, fixing the pages with care. He wasn’t fond of his Master’s reading selection, but it felt wrong to know that Central had torn through everything with no discretion.

He stacked the books beside him according to size, keeping the thickest books to his left. The thinner books, mostly cheap paperbacks bought on the street, were worn and yellowed with age, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol permeated the pages.

He used to hate that smell. Whenever he passed by a bar, in any city he found himself in, he would retch at the scent, recalling vivid memories of his time with Cross. Now he found himself recalling the smell in a new light: he could remember a few times when Cross wasn’t as much of an prick as he usually was.

One in particular stood out as he sat surrounded by books. It was Christmastime, not long after Cross had taken him in. At Mother’s insistence, he had taken Allen shopping.

At the time, Allen hated it - people stared at his dirty clothes like he was something inferior and disgusting. Cross had pulled him into a rather fancy store, demanding that he be fitted for decent clothes. He’d claimed it was because he  _hated_  dirty things, and that he needed to look presentable to be with him.

Allen had believed him, and had squirmed the entire time, flushing with shame when the tailor gaped at his arm. Cross had barked at the man to focus on his job, and glared openly when the man continued to stare.

Allen had held back tears until they left the store, and sniveled miserably while Cross ducked into another store. A few young ladies had taken pity on him and given him sweets, but he was still rather unhappy when his Master returned.

They settled into an inn for the night, Allen crying himself to sleep, tiny arms wrapped around Timcanpy. The next morning when he woke, Allen noted with some dismay that his master was gone.

Finding Cross missing sent the little boy into a frenzy, and he panicked for an hour or so. He finally calmed down after Tim floated to a note on the dresser, next to a small box.

It wasn’t much, but for Cross it had obviously taken him some effort. The paper was stained with ink spots and wrinkled in some places, as if the general had gripped the paper too tightly for some reason.

The end result had been two short lines that dove straight into the young child’s heart:

_Merry Christmas, brat._

_\- Cross_

Inside the box was a long red ribbon with a black stripe down the middle. Timcanpy inspected it curiously, biting the edges, but Allen swiftly yanked it away, tying it around his neck with shaking hands.

In Cross’s room, Allen thumbed the tie around his neck wistfully. He’d stopped wearing his frayed ribbon after some time, but still kept the worn strip in a box in his room. It was silly, of course: it was just a ribbon. But it was the first gift his Master had given him.

He sniffled, clearing his throat, and reached for a large encyclopedia set. It seemed most of them had gone undisturbed; there was a thick layer of dust on top of the books.

Curious, he began pulling out the books, stacking them carefully. When he reached book L, he found with some concern that the book wouldn’t move. He tugged a bit harder, and still the book wouldn’t budge.

He quickly removed the other books, staring at two volumes that refused to move. He couldn’t quite understand why, but it had to be some sort of clue. The letters didn’t make any sense as words, even in the languages Cross had taught him, and he couldn’t think of any code that would fit.

On a whim, he grabbed hold of the volumes, digging his heels back on the carpet. The wood gave, and with a yelp, he fell back, the false back of the bookcase coming loose. The force sent him tumbling, the books knocking into his face painfully. He hissed, rubbing his cheeks where the books connected, and peeked into the hole, finding nothing but a medium-sized box within.

He dragged it out, coughing at the sheer amount of dust and debris, swiping it aside to inspect the box carefully. As gold leaf letters came into view, Allen felt his eye twitch.

On the side, in large, bold letters, was the one word that Allen had come to hate over the years: DEBTS. Even in death, Cross Marian managed to stick him with his bills.

Annoyed, he tugged the box open, waving away the dust that flew up. Inside, small white receipts created a bulge at the center of the box. Most were nearly illegible, though Allen could more or less guess at the amounts.

He stacked the papers aside slowly, frowning as he realized the bulge had been created by something bigger. Once he cleared enough bills, he stared down at the glass bottle.

It was vintage wine, one of the more expensive ones Cross was particularly fond of, though why it was packed away with debts was beyond Allen. He turned the bottle around, frowning at the label and the seal still in place.

From what Cross had told him about wines, the older the better. This bottle was positively ancient, and yet Cross hadn’t even opened it. Why?

He sat on the balcony absently, inspecting the bottle for some sort of tampering. Maybe it had been poisoned? Or maybe Cross had poisoned it for whoever found the box? He paled at the thought.

Timcanpy fluttered over, nuzzling his Allen’s head, and burped, tossing out two wine glasses onto the alcove. The young boy chuckled, watching as the ball flipped in the air, nudging the bottle.

Allen tapped the glass bottle warily. He didn’t like wine much - he’d seen its effects far too many times to find it enjoyable - but it seemed like a decent tribute to his master.

“One time won’t hurt, right?” He muttered to the golem, uncorking the bottle easily. Instantly, the sweet smell of grapes blended with the sharpness of the alcohol invaded his senses. A soft breeze from the open window helped disperse the smell, and he slowly poured the drinks into the glasses.

He set one glass on the alcove, watching as Timcanpy curiously dipped a leg into the liquid. The other he took for himself, setting the bottle between the two. He raised the glass to Tim, then to the open window, and took a small sip.

It wasn’t bad. It didn’t burn his throat as much as he thought it would, and the aftertaste was rather nice. He leaned back against the frame, watching the sun set.

When he drained his glass, he picked up the box of debts, stretching. He considered leaving the wine behind, but he recalled that once opened, it lost taste or value or  _something_. So he placed the bottle on top of the box and left the room quietly.

A soft breeze drifted into the room, stirring the contents of the forgotten wineglass. Timcanpy spun around happily, nudging the wine glass affectionately, and flew out the room.


End file.
